Riding On War
by Elias Porter
Summary: A moment of battle upon the Parnassian, Ares, at the Battle of Cape Finisterre.


**July 22, 1805 - Off Cape Finisterre, Spain**

Greeley blinked rifle smoke from his eyes, felt the powder burns on his cheek, smelt blood upon the air; all of it dull sensations amidst the scene of battle. His hands worked fast to reload the rifle. He jammed the lead ball and its greased wrappings into place before skillfully aiming and adjusting the path of projection, wasting no time in firing at the rapidly descending bomb. A blinding flash and an explosion that shook his bones informed Greeley he hit his mark.

Then, the ground beneath his feet began to shift as Ares, the great Parnassian, banked a hard left, narrowly avoiding collision with a Papillion Noir and a Cauchador Real. Greeley grasped tightly to his carabine, steading his mind more than his stance. In this brief moment, he was offered a clear view of the battle below.

A fleet of fifteen British ships-of-the-line, headed by HMS Prince of Wales, were exchanging volleys with a fleet of French and Spanish ships. The blasts of the cannon fires rolled across the open water and the flashes reflected off the tumult expanse. The numbers were fifteen to twenty, plus two frigates to the British; the odds were against them. And the falling darkness worked with the light fog, making it hard for the ships to coordinate. They might have been done for, and Napoleon's chance to invade Britain made if it had not been for Ares' formation.

And then the moment passed, and Greeley was forced to return his attention to the battle above the water.

"Isaac!"

Greeley turned to the call of his name and saw one of his fellow riflemen, Edward Morton, pointing.

"Port wing!" he called.

The Papillion Noir was coming round again and flying only just above, looking to make ready for a boarding. Greeley rammed another lead ball into the rifle and stood ready. As the Papillion Noir descended, his crew came into open view and Greeley, nearly unaware of the lieutenant's cry of "Volley!", took his shot. One of the French aviators slumped and fell over the side, cut away by his fellow crew members. But he was not alone, the other riflemen aboard Ares found a mark and the Papillion Noir was burdened with fewer men. They were not without their own loss, however.

Morton was knocked from his feet as a lead ball made contact with his right shoulder, and he smacked hard against Ares' side. He moaned in pain, kept from falling only by his carabiner. Another rifleman fell, not quite as lucky as Morton, and his limp body was quickly cut free; followed by a young topmen. Several stray bullets embedded themselves into Ares' tough hide, one precariously close to Greeley.

A French cry was raised and several jumped, quickly latching their carabiners to Ares' harness. Slinging the rifle over his shoulder, Greeley drew the fifty-eight centimeter sword-bayonet, issued with his rifle, and parried a blow. The French boarder attempted to raise his pistol, but Greeley kicked up and cracked his wrist, eliciting a painful cry in French. Without hesitation, Greeley ran him through and swiftly cut his carabiner. He bent down and unclipped his own and took several steps before latching himself to a ring near another boarder. The rest of them proved more of a match for Ares' crew. They struggled against one another for a time well that Papillion Noir held onto Ares.

There was, for a moment, the fear of French success. Greeley spotted an aviator getting dangerously close to Captain Campbell, pistol drawn and aimed. His own hands reacted faster than his mind. His pistol was drawn and loaded before the notion even comprehended to him, and took aim with a certain calmness that became instinctual to a sharpshooter. He shot the French bastard squarely in the back of his head. The Scotsman gave Greeley a curt nod. The rest of the Frenchmen, disheartened, were then swiftly disposed of, and the Papillion Noir thought better than to continue his hold. He fell away and retreated, distressed by his losses.

"Captain!" cried a lookout. The boy was only just twelve with a knife drawn and blood seeping from a cut along his head. "Vice Admiral Calder is signaling to fall back!"

"It's about bloody time!" the Campbell shouted, not in any way ashamed of his behavior. "As much as I love giving the French the what for, I'd rather not test our luck against that Fleur-de-Nuit."

The Fleur-de-Nuit had not entered the fight; rather, she observed from a distance, circling above the French and Spanish fleet.

"Single to the rest of the formation," Campbell told the lookout. "We'll continue engagement tomorrow. And get Morton below with the other wounded."

Greeley made his way down Ares' back, returning to his position. And as the rest of the formation fell in line, Greeley could just make out the retreating fleet of the enemy.

But they would not meet again the next morning. Vice Admiral Calder was wary of enemy's number and decided to head northeast, two Spanish prizes in tow. Admiral Villeneuve shadowed them for two days, but disappeared by the third. Greeley later heard, through gossip, that he had sailed to A Coruña, and then to Cádiz.

For the time, Napoleon's attempt to invade Britain had been diverted.


End file.
